ror of
true crystal; the arched window was curtained with azure satin and
lace. It was a chamber fit for a princess of the old _regime_,
unaltered since its fair occupant last abode in it.

Balder now examined the frescos which covered wall and ceiling. The
subject seemed at the first glance to be a Last Judgment, or something
of that nature. A mingled rush of forms mounted on one side to the
bright zenith, and thence lapsed confusedly down the opposite descent.
The dark end of the room presented a cloud of gloomily fantastic
shapes, swerved from the main stream, and becoming darker and more
formless the farther they receded, till at the last they were lost in
a murky shadow. Not entirely lost, however; for as Balder gazed
awfully thitherward, the shadow seemed to resolve itself into a mass
of intertwined and struggling beings, neither animal nor human, but
combining the more unholy traits of both.

But from the centre of the upward stream shone forms and faces of
angelic beauty; yet, on looking more narrowly, Balder discerned in
each one some ghastly peculiarity, revealing itself just when
enjoyment of the beauty was on the point of becoming complete. Such
was the effect that the most angelic forms were translated into
mocking demons, and where the light seemed brightest there was the
spiritual darkness most profound.

In the zenith was a white lustre which obliterated distinction of form
as much as did the cloudy obscurity at the end of the room. Now the
design seemed about to unfold itself; then again it eluded the gazer's
grasp. Suddenly at length it stood revealed. A gigantic face, with
wide-floating hair and beard, looked down into Balder's own. Its
expression was of infinite malignity and despair. The impersonation of
all that is wicked and miserable, its place was at the top of Heaven;
it was moulded of those aspiring forms of light, and was the goal
which the brightest attained. Moreover, either by some ugly
coincidence or how otherwise he could not conceive, this countenance
of supreme evil was the very reflex of Balder's,--a portrait minutely
true, and, despite its satanic expression, growing every moment more
unmistakable.

Was this accident, or the contrivance of an unknown and unfathomable
malice? Balder, Lord of Heaven, instinct with the essence of Hell! A
grim satire on his religious speculations! But what satirist had been
bitter enough so to forestall the years?--for the painting must have
been d